


overworked and underpaid

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: Except... Not Really, Explicit Sexual Content, Flimsy Excuses To Have Sex, Hand Jobs, Lots of People Get Their Asses Kicked, M/M, Minor Frank Castle/Matt Murdock, POV Clint Barton, Ronin Clint Barton, Secret Identity, Self-Destructive Tendencies, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:00:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24928810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: At least they can blame it on the sexy gas.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Marc Spector
Comments: 24
Kudos: 58





	overworked and underpaid

**Author's Note:**

> The pure disaster potential smacked me in the face.

“Punisher and Daredevil are breaking into the other part of the facility.”

“Oh yeah? They working together now?”

“Don’t know. That’d be kind of weird, right? I’m pretty sure I saw them fighting each other a couple of months ago.”

“Things change. I’m glad we’re all the way over here, out of their way.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Clint says conversationally as he slams the door open, catches the first guy in the face. The sword in his other hand takes care of the second one, stabbing into his gut with ease; he doesn’t even get the chance to cry out, and that’s exactly how Clint wants him.

It’s kind of disappointing, though. He’s just spent three days tracking these idiots through the city, only for the fight to be over already. Clint crouches down to rummage through the man’s jacket, picks up an ID card in case he can’t hack any of the doors or computers. He sighs through his teeth, wishes the mask wasn’t so suffocating.

The other half of the property is separated from this one. It’s doubtful Clint will even _see_ Frank and his companion, and that’s probably for the best. He thinks briefly about vacating the premises entirely, but running off in the middle of saving people just because it’s _awkward_ doesn’t feel right.

It’s going to be weird, seeing people he knows again. He’s spent too much time with corpses and bad guys.

Clint sighs, gets to his feet again and ignores the ache in his knees. A bullet nicked his ribs last week and he can still feel that too, and he’s struck again with the thought that he’s slowing down. He’s nowhere near stopping yet, however, and when a red-clad hand ninja appears Clint’s ready for them.

Unfortunately, the ninja doesn’t fight him first.

Instead they press a button on a device and an alarm blares loud enough that Clint cringes. It doesn’t stop him from coming for the ninja, though. A shuriken is thrown at his head and Clint ducks out the way, kicks the ninja into the wall and then stabs, still grimacing at the shrieking alarm. There are other ninjas showing up at the opposite end of the room now and he’s got to move quick before they swarm him.

Clint’s sword goes through the man’s chest and straight out the other side.

This would be a more appealing if it hadn’t also sunk into a worn-down pipe attached to the wall. The blade catches when Clint tries to pull it out one-handed, and the ninjas are approaching far too quickly for him to waste time trying to get it out.

One ninja is ahead of the rest, grabs his wrist and Clint yanks his hand back to tug them closer, punches them in the face and then knees them in the stomach. Clearly they’re looking for a beating because that doesn’t down them and they headbutt him before he knocks them to the ground and jams his boot into their face.

Shit, that hurt. He’d have thought the mask would protect him a _little_.

The group of the ninjas standing a few meters away raise their weapons.

“Give it to me,” Clint says, makes a come-hither gesture just to piss them off a little more. There’s something about it, something that gets his blood rushing and his heart beating fast in his chest. (Natasha used to call it his ‘self-destructive streak’ and she’s probably not _wrong,_ but it hasn’t stopped him yet.)

The world fades out into mostly sensations after that. The feeling of flesh against his gloved fists, the throbbing ache in his jaw where someone lands a lucky hit, loud groans of pain. None of the groans are his, thankfully.

The next guy just lunges at him - what he’s planning to do once he gets here, Clint’s got no idea. He doesn’t get the opportunity to find out either because as the guy runs at him Clint steps to the side and grabs the back of the ninja’s neck, uses the momentum to slam his face down on the exposed blade of his sword, still hanging from the pipe.

“This was supposed to be a _fight_ ,” he says to the corpse before he turns back to the few ninjas left.

This one’s got a gun. Shit.

There’s no cover to protect himself with and Clint prepares to dive at the guy, hopes to hell that he’ll only get shot a _little_ bit trying to disarm him.

“ _Something’s coming,_ ”one of them shouts in Japanese.

They’re not paying attention to him anymore.

The skylight above them shatters and Clint looks up in time to see something large and white drop from the ceiling. Clint’s heart stops for a second and then the figure lands directly on top of the guy with a gun, knocks him onto the ground and somehow manages to stay perfectly balanced as the cape flutters around him.

One white-gloved hand flicks out lightning fast and the other ninjas fall to the ground, clutching the spots where crescent-shaped blades are sunk into their flesh.

Well.

Clint doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or not.

“Ronin,” Moon Knight says.

“Moon Knight. What’re you doing here?”

“The same as you, I’d assume. Illegal experimentation. Kidnapping people from the streets.”

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Clint says, braces himself and yanks his sword his sword out of the metal pipe with both hands. The corpse comes with it, heavy in the way that only a dead body can be, and it starts to slide down the blade towards the hilt. Ugh.

Clint tips his hands up until it slides back the other way, braces his foot on the corpse’s chest and shoves with his boot until it falls off his sword with a _squelch_. He wipes the blade off on his pants, grimaces at the mess.

At least it doesn’t show up against all the black (the yellow is a _bitch_ to clean, but there’s a minimal amount of that.) Moon Knight doesn’t have the same advantage.

They eye each other off for a moment. If Clint was in a different suit he’d be cracking a joke, or going to collect his arrows. Instead the silence digs its claws into the space between them, sharp and uncomfortable.

“So. What do we do now?”

“I work alone,” Moon Knight says.

Moon Knight shakes his hand out and the blood on his knuckles flicks onto the floor. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking - the only facial feature the mask has is those almost-luminous white eyes, and those don’t communicate any kind of emotion.

“So do I,” is the reply Clint has for him. “I’m not leaving though, and neither are you. We’ll be quicker if we work together.”

The man on the ground by Moon Knight’s feet groans loudly, sounding pained. From the disfigured jut of his jaw underneath the black cloth, something important has been broken. Poor bastard. He gets kicked for his effort and Clint winces just a little, looks back up at Moon Knight’s face.

Moon Knight turns around and starts walking further into the building.

Alright. It’s not a _fuck off, Ronin_ , at least. Other people wouldn’t have been that polite.

Clint follows - there’s no other option, really - and immediately he’s smacked in the face by heavy white cloth as Moon Knight’s cape drifts out behind him. This is why capes are impractical. Edna Mode was right to banish them altogether.

Clint bats it away from himself and Moon Knight turns to eye him, but shifts to the left so they can walk side-by-side instead.

“I thought you were in Japan,” Moon Knight says. “Holiday not work out for you?”

“Nah,” Clint answers. “Visa ran out.”

He doesn’t get a laugh - isn’t expecting one, really, but he gets the distinct impression that he’s amusing Moon Knight nonetheless.

Clint realizes that Moon Knight is possibly the only person that doesn’t know what a monumental fuck-up he is. He’s pretty sure Moon Knight doesn’t even know his real name, or that he was something else, once before.

“Should’ve got a real job then,” is the eventual reply he receives.

Funny guy.

“I don’t think people would appreciate a guy with a sword as a McDonald’s cashier.”

“As long as you wash your gloves, who cares?”

A man in a lab coat tries to block their way and Moon Knight’s fist sinks into his face before he even manages to lift a finger. Clint feels like maybe he’s not particularly needed right now, but he keeps his sword at the ready anyway.

There’s something in the way Moon Knight just _exists_ that invokes a twisted kind of kinship in Clint, especially now he’s doing the Ronin thing full-time (it’s all he’s got left, he doesn’t _have_ any other options.) Being in the presence of someone who’s not quite a hero in the same way Steve or Sam or Bobbi is, someone who’s a little (a _lot)_ fucked up on the inside and still trying to save people - it makes him feel less alone.

Clint probably _deserves_ to be alone, but. He gets lonely sometimes, is all. He’s used to being surrounded by a team and friends and now it’s just him and his sword and the angry golden face on the Ronin mask.

“They’re probably keeping the prisoners in the center of the building,” Moon Knight says. “Harder to escape that way.”

“Sensible,” Clint replies.

The corridor flashes a deep, dangerous red.

There’s no time for them to get out. Even if there was, it’s not like there’s anywhere to go, no convenient trapdoors or vent openings large enough to crawl through. Clint’s got enough time to back up against a wall and raise his sword before there’s an ominous hissing noise and a green gas fills the corridor.

“Uh oh,” Clint says. His face doesn’t melt off though, so maybe they’re okay.

Moon Knight tugs his hood up over the bottom half of his mask. “Come on. Main room’s this way.”

There’s gunshots rattling in the distance. Frank Castle, probably. He doesn’t want to be caught in the crossfire of that; Frank’s a pretty good shot, but Clint doesn’t trust anyone’s aim except for his own. Moon Knight tips his chin up in that direction and seems to be listening to what’s going on, so Clint glances around for any other signs of life.

“Aha,” he says as he spots the trapdoor. “Got you, motherfucker.”

It creaks alarmingly when he tries to lift - _fuck_ , it’s heavy - and he grimaces when it only budges a couple of inches. If he throws his fucking back out he’s going to cry from the embarrassment.

He’s saved a moment later by a warm body settling in next to him, his arm brushing Moon Knight’s as the trapdoor becomes slightly easier to lift. Moon Knight grunts quietly and Clint feels a shiver down his spine as they get it open, drop the door with a _thunk_.

Clint very carefully does not look at Moon Knight’s face. Not that it’d make a difference. He crouches by the opening and peers down into the darkness. “Anyone down there?”

“Hello? We’re trapped down here!”

“I’ll find a ladder,” Clint calls down, and then turns to see Moon Knight has already acquired one, seemingly from thin air. Is that one of his powers? Magical ladder acquisition?

“Is anyone hurt?”

“Clarise hurt her arm,” the voice returns. “Are you… Ronin?”

“Sure am. Step away from the opening,” Clint replies, exchanges a glance - he thinks - with Moon Knight before he drops down. His skin’s prickling oddly but he ignores it in favour of starting to help the dirty, tired-looking people up to safety.

None of them seem to be afraid of him, which is strange. Usually he gets at least a fearful glance, but Clint supposes there are bigger problems than Ronin when you’ve been down a dark hole that the Hand stuck you in for a few days. Most of them seem to be unharmed - they’re no use if they’re dead, he supposes.

“That’s the way out,” he can hear Moon Knight saying to the frail-looking blonde girl he’d just helped up. “Go quickly, stay with the others. You’re safe now.”

It’s oddly tender from someone so brutally efficient in a fight, and Clint gets caught up in looking for a minute, nearly dropping a woman’s baby when she hands it to him so she can climb the ladder first. Oh, jeez. He doesn’t want to be trusted with a child.

Luckily it’s taken from him a minute later, and he’s free to check over the stragglers.

“Where’s the injured girl?”

“Here,” a hooded teenager says.

The girl - Clarise? - has a nasty-looking cut on her arm. Clint inspects it as best he can in the awful lighting, keeps his hands gentle as he can while he looks it over. It doesn’t look infected, so he lets her go again and tips back on his heels, looks at the teenager next to her.

“You know where the nearest hospital is?”

“Yes,” they say as he helps them both up the ladder. 

“Alright, head that way when you get out.”

“We can’t afford that,” the girl says quietly.

“Go to the hospital,” Moon Knight repeats, and they all look at him. “It’ll be taken care of, don’t worry about the bill. You don’t want to deal with it later if it gets worse.”

They head in the same direction that the others were walking in. Clint watches them go, kind of relieved that someone could help. It’s not like he can pay for a hospital visit either (partially because he can’t be seen in public hospitals with the whole Ronin schtick going on, but also because he’s just fucking broke.)

“I don’t think I’ve _ever_ been to a hospital of my own volition,” he says absently.

“Me either,” Moon Knight says. “Sounds like the gunfire’s stopped. Should make sure we don’t have to drag Castle’s body out of here.”

“I guess,” Clint says. It’s getting hard to concentrate on what’s going on - the prickling on his skin has bloomed into full-scale itching and he’s sweating awkwardly in the confines of his suit. It’s not even hot, what is he doing? Maybe he’s getting a cold from all that standing in the rain last week.

The open outdoor area they’d heard the gunfire from is empty, aside from the piles of corpses (Punisher) and the occasional unconscious ninja (Daredevil). There’s no sign of the people they’re looking for, though.

Moon Knight’s looking up at the night sky. It’s no surprise that he’s staring up at the wide circle of the full moon hanging there, and Clint thinks faintly that maybe he’s onto something there because it _is_ kinda pretty.

“Maybe they left already,” Clint says.

“Maybe,” Moon Knight agrees, but he stops staring up at the sky and starts looking around.

Clint _could_ just leave. He probably _should_ just leave, but something keeps him where he is. He watches as Moon Knight crouches by a body, inspects god knows what. The moonlight makes him look like he’s glowing, and it also makes the cords of muscle on his thighs and arms that much more obvious. Clint had guessed Moon Knight was ripped, but Moon Knight is _ripped_.

Moon Knight stands up from his spot and heads towards a red door. He looks like he’s onto something, so Clint follows.

“It’s locked,” Moon Knight says as an aside, and then there’s a loud cry that sounds suspiciously like Daredevil.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hears Frank say, loud enough to hear through the door.

“Shit,” Clint says, raises his voice. “How many bad guys are in there with you? Stand back, I’ll break the lock.”

“No,” Frank answers. “No, leave the fucking door locked.”

“There’s - _ah_ , there’s no bad guys in here.”

“What,” Clint says, and then he hears one of them moan. He’s glad no one can see the heat on his face because he’s fairly sure he’s flushed right now.

There are a lot of things he’s seen that have made him want to flush his eyes and ears out with the most dangerous substance he can get ahold of - Egghead, MODOK, and Asbestos Lady come to mind - but listening to the Punisher and Daredevil have sex really takes the cake.

“Really? _Here?_ ”

“It’s the gas,” Frank says, sounding distracted - oh god, distracted by _fucking Daredevil._ “The gas, it’s - some kind of sex pollen.”

Oh.

Oh no.

That does explain a few things though.

“Well,” Clint says, turns to look at Moon Knight, who’s remarkably still right now. His hands are flexing under the white gloves and Clint’s eyes are drawn to the movement - for some reason he’s having trouble looking away and his mouth feels dry all of a sudden. “I, uh.”

“We should probably leave them to it,” Moon Knight says as Daredevil’s noises get even louder. Jesus, you’d think he was dying in there.

“Uh huh,” Clint answers vaguely. “After you?”

They head in the opposite direction, step into an office room, void of both corpses and live people besides them. Clint feels like he’s being boiled alive - he can’t quite get himself to stay still no matter how hard he tries. Oh god, he hates experimental gas. Why do they need sex pollen? Who _genuinely_ thought this was a good idea to have?

“No exit this way,” Clint says, and his voice comes out hoarse and far too quiet.

Moon Knight pins him up against a wall.

Normally Clint’s quick enough to dodge and it’s a clumsy grab on top of that, but he doesn’t move at all other than letting Moon Knight push him where he wants him. He can hear Moon Knight’s heavy breathing and he shivers without meaning to, shifts his hips on instinct. This results in him pushing his rock-hard dick against the tac belt, feels Moon Knight’s own impressive erection even through the layers of fabric.

They don’t do anything.

Clint doesn’t move and Moon Knight doesn’t move and they just stand there for a moment, breathing hard and soaked in the heavy tension.

Then Moon Knight steps back. “Sorry. I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Clint breathes. “Can’t help it. Sexy gas, right?”

“Yeah,” Moon Knight says. “Sexy gas.”

They stare at each other a moment longer. Neither of them move for the exit, and Clint might actually die if he doesn’t get some relief from the hot ache in his pants. (Also, he’s not wearing any underwear and the fabric is rubbing up against him uncomfortably.)

“Maybe we should just… take care of it here?”

He can’t even believe he’s suggesting it. It’s the better choice from a practical perspective; if they’re distracted and more of the Hand show up they’ll be screwed, and they don’t know if the gas will have any negative effects if they _don’t_ do it. Still, it’s _getting off in a room with Moon Knight_.

“Sure. Yeah,” Moon Knight says, which is not what Clint’s expecting.

Clint watches him fiddle with his belt, get his pants down. He _is_ wearing underwear - white, obviously - and it’s clinging to the bulge of his dick underneath the cloth. (Clint’s mouth isn’t watering, it’s _not_.) His gloved hand curls over it and Clint realizes just standing there and staring is a little creepy, so he sheathes his sword and pushes his numb hands to move, shoves his own pants down his thighs.

Clint’s still leaning up against the wall so he stays where he is, tugs off the glove on his left hand and drops it on a nearby desk. His hand feels hot and he lets out a quiet huff of breath when he touches his dick.

Inevitably his eyes are drawn back to Moon Knight, who makes a nearly inaudible noise, rubs his hand slow over himself. It’s a _good_ noise though, ramps Clint up even more despite how weird this entire situation is. He starts jerking himself off in slow, easy pulls, tips his head back against the wall and tries to keep his eyes closed, focus on his fingers.

It doesn’t help because Moon Knight’s still making those fucking _sounds_ and closing his eyes just means he’s picturing what it’d be like to get on his knees for him. Maybe Clint could convince him into a little mouth fucking too - he doesn’t seem like he’d be worried about being gentle and Clint likes it that way.

“ _Gah_ ,” Clint says.

It’s partially because the images in his brain are driving him up the way and partially because no matter how fast he moves his hand, he can’t _quite_ get there.

“I can’t-” Moon Knight says. “It’s not working.”

“Me either,” Clint replies, a little desperate. Fuck, are they gonna die like this?

“Fucking sexy gas,” Moon Knight says.

Clint’s snort is slightly hysterical but he looks at Moon Knight again, wishes he hadn’t a second later when he sees the wet cockhead slipping through white gloves. That’s not funny at all - it’s upsettingly hot, and Clint rubs his thumb over his dick, bites his lip.

“C’mere,” he says, hopes that no one ever finds out about this. (Natasha would never stop judging him for this one, god.) “Let me - _yeah_.”

Moon Knight traps him against the wall again and just having him close makes Clint’s heart rate pick up as he wraps his hands around both their lengths - thank god the guy’s only a little shorter than he is. Moon Knight sighs shakily and and his hips push up into Clint’s fist. He’s hot against Clint’s fingers and this should be a lot less appealing than it is.

They can’t even see each other’s _faces_. Clint feels like he’s at a sexy masquerade party but with a lot more corpses outside. He notices Moon Knight’s mask is tilted down and realizes a second later that he’s watching Clint jerk them off. _Jesus_.

Moon Knight grunts, a low rough noise. Clint speeds up his hand and it’s almost too much, little oversensitive shivers down his spine as precum slicks up his fingers and makes it _worse_. Fuck.

“Fuck,” Moon Knight echoes like he’s reading Clint’s mind and if it wasn’t for the mask Clint would kiss him because his voice is _unfairly_ hot, “keep going, I’m-”

Clint bites his lip hard and the taste of metal explodes in his mouth. It stops him from making any embarrassing sounds as he comes, though the voice modulator in the mask might have saved him anyway. He’s faintly aware of Moon Knight coming as well and he wants to be shoved up against the wall harder, wants to keep going until he’s lightheaded and dizzy.

Wait. The mask.

“Does - _ah_ , shit - does your mask have a filter?”

“What?” The reply is distracted - not surprising, considering the position they’re in. “I - yeah, it does. Why?”

“Sexy gas, that’s why,” Clint says. He’s still got his fingers on Moon Knight’s dick.

“Your mask has a filter too,” Moon Knight says slowly. “We couldn’t have breathed in any gas.”

“And our skin was completely covered,” Clint adds.

They stare at each other.

“Well,” Clint says. “That’s, ah. That’s fucking awkward.”

Moon Knight steps back, moves over to the desk and finds some tissues. He hands a couple over and Clint wipes off his hand and his dick. The tension has turned from extremely hot to extremely awkward all of a sudden, which is unsurprising because now they’ve had sex for no reason.

Clint glances up at the full moon shining through the window. He’s getting the weirdest sensation that he’s being watched.

He turns around and Moon Knight has vanished. For all the talk about wanting people to see him coming - and Clint _did_ see him coming - there was nothing about seeing him make an exit. He’s surprisingly subtle when he wants to be.

Oh well.

Clint tugs his pants up and heads for where he thinks the exit was.

It's probably for the best, right?


End file.
